The Swordsman's Oath

by Juliet E. McKenna

  The scent of thyme crushed under the hooves of a galloping horse mingled with the acrid dust of the road and the sharp reek of the beast’s sweat. A scream rang out and Temar heard foul curses spat from all directions as the clash of swords struck sparks from his sleeping mind. Harness rattled and creaked, the swish and snap of a whip with its promise of pain to spur on the already desperate. A dire sense of urgency possessed him, a desperation mingled with an arrogance that soon shifted to fear, uncertainty and pain. The bite of the sword was as deep in the mind as into the body and Temar struggled in a futile effort to rid himself of the panic that was flooding him, its tendrils dragging him down as surely as weeds would drown a swimmer. Sudden agony overwhelmed him to be replaced by an emptiness even more horrible, until the darkness claimed him once more.

  “So what exactly are you and how do I unlock your secrets?” Temar awoke with a start to see a hawk-faced man with flaxen hair stooping over him. Terror filled him but in that same instant he realized the man with the piercing blue eyes was not looking at him but at something to one side. He was himself still disembodied, no more than a shade crying to Poldrion for passage to the Otherworld, Temar realized. Who was this man? Memory struggled to knit together the tangled skeins of recollection and a distant echo of pain and terror sounded dimly in Temar’s reason. Pale heads in the dawn sunlight flashed across his mind’s eye and a terrible sense of danger began to build in Temar as the blond, cold-eyed man began a low murmur of enchantment, a tainted miasma overlying the image Temar was seeing. This time Temar reached desperately for the mists of the enchantment that concealed him, diving into the concealing depths to evade the poisonous touch of the sorcerer.

  Light seared him like a burning brand.

  “Come on, Viltred, move! They’re nearly on us!”

  In a gateway, the speaker stood, intense eyes in a pale face, reddish hair streaked with white swirling in the biting wind. His companion hurried after him, burdened with a motley collection of jewelry, weapons and trinkets. The first man ran, long legs spurning the short grass while his companion, shorter and more sturdy, dark of hair and beard, plunged after him, the long skirts of his azure surcoat threatening to trip him at every stride. Temar was silent in helpless anguish as trifles slipped from his grasp to be lost in the uneven ground.

  Quarrels thudded into the turf on all sides, but as Temar despaired of the two men ever escaping the arrows were snatched out of the air by unseen hands, blue light streaming from the bearded man’s hands, brilliance startling against the overcast.

  “Here, Azazir, it’s here!” Suddenly they were at a cliff’s edge, black basalt columns forming a perilous stair to a tiny coracle, which bobbed seemingly untethered in the tumultuous foam of the breaking seas.

  “Watch your step,” the red-headed man shouted, an insane exultation in his voice as he skipped lightly down the treacherous rocks, sure-footed as a cat. The younger man picked his way down more carefully, testing his footing at every step. Spray lashed him, bitter cold biting deep into flesh and bones as he made the long and hazardous descent.

  Yells from aloft signalled the arrival of pursuit but as black-clad warriors gathered at the cliff-top and a few bolder than the rest began to edge down the slick and treacherous rocks, the red-headed man reached the flimsy leather boat. Standing easily in the frail craft, he raised his hands and green light gathered around him, casting an unearthly light on his thin face. Where the sea spray landed on the rocks, it began to cling, to pool, to draw together, drops making rivulets that joined to stream down the black stones, pushing at feet and hands. As the younger man reached the sanctuary of the tiny craft, he dumped his burden and wove his own skein of blue light, gusts of wind snatching at heads and shoulders, sharp blasts of icy air tugging at legs and feet. The first to fall shrieked in utter terror as he fell to his fate in the icy foam, the second clawed frantically at his neighbor, only to drag him down too, smashed on the unforgiving rocks before the seas claimed the bodies as their own. A wild exultation filled Temar, but before he could seize it the swirling mists swept over him as surely as the icy seas of his vision.

  A longing filled Temar with an intensity beyond anything he had known. Guinalle. She was gone, not lost but hidden, a jewel buried deep in the earth as surely as the finest gem Misaen ever minted, not rough and unpolished but sleeping in peerless beauty, waiting only to be revealed to those that sought her. He shook off a sudden image of green eyes, dark with passion against unbleached linen in a tumble of auburn hair and determination filled him. He had to escape this, whatever this was, to reach out and find some way to rescue Guinalle. Nothing less would do.

  The ruins of the Den Rannion steading,

  Kel Ar’Ayen, 43rd of Aft-Summer

  “Are you awake?” Livak propped herself on one elbow to look curiously at me, her eyes huge in the light of the moons, both at the half, greater waning, lesser waxing to the full that would signify the arrival of For-Autumn.

  I nodded and heaved a long sigh. “I am now.”

  “You’ve been dreaming?” she asked with that uncertainty that I was truly coming to hate in her voice.

  “Dreaming someone else’s dreams, as far as I can make out.” I sat and stretched to work the stiffness out of my shoulders. Temar might have suffered terrors made worse by his bodilessness, I thought to myself, but I’d wager I was suffering enough for the pair of us with the knots his memories were tying my sleeping muscles into. “I think I’ve been seeing something of what Temar’s been perceiving over the generations, when someone’s emotions have been running sufficiently strong to make some kind of connection with him, if that makes any sense.”

  Even in the modest moonlight, I could see Livak looking both dubious and confused. A qualm of fear chilled me in the midst of the warmth of the night as it occurred to me to wonder what might happen when Temar’s dreams included me. Would I see myself through his eyes? Sitting up, I looked across the gloomy enclosure to see a faint green glow betraying Shiv’s magelight. I ruffled Livak’s unbraided hair with an affectionate hand. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep again for a while,” I whispered. “I’m going to stretch my legs.”

  “Have one for me,” she said sleepily, voice muffled by her blanket.

  When I drew closer to Shiv, I saw he was talking in a low voice with Tonin. The mentor had a small chest between his outstretched legs and I caught an unmistakable glint of gold in the magelight.

  “Rysh.” Shiv looked up with a welcoming smile. “Can’t you sleep?”

  “Not without my uninvited guest taking over my dreams,” I replied as lightly as I could.

  “We’ve been discussing how to go about the scrying in the morning,” explained Shiv.

  “Did you say you’d been dreaming of the colony again?” Tonin looked up, expression inquisitive, so I reached into his casket to forestall further questions.

  “What are these?” I picked out a small brooch, dropping it instantly as a shock like the spark from cat’s fur stung my fingers.

  “Some of the colony’s artifacts,” Tonin retrieved the ring with careful fingers and rolled it lovingly in a scrap of silk.

  “What we need now is to find the people they belong to,” said Shiv, frustration lifting his voice loud enough to raise a few heads from their blankets.

  “Do you think we could have a little less disturbance?” A waspish request came from a dark bundle and I identified it with some surprise as Viltred. I’d have thought the old wizard would have stayed on the ship, given a choice.

  “Does anything strike a chord with you?” Tonin offered me the casket and I reached hesitantly for a plain gold ring, the kind that men at home still give their wives to mark their child’s first steps. Resting it in the palm of my hand, I tentatively loosened my hold on the bars that held Temar behind closed doors. Nothing resulted, leaving me feeling absurdly disappointed. I shook my head, more than a little mystified.

  Tonin removed the ring and laid a chatelaine across my hand, the
long chains jingling softly as the keys, knife and purse swung to and fro. Still feeling nothing, I handed it back and took the casket from Tonin. For the most part, it contained rings, some plain, others ornamented with enamel or engraving, a few heavy cabochons and more seals that must have been worn for generations before crossing the ocean in hopes of reaffirming their ownership. Faceted gems on rings and other jewelry shone soft and secretive in the fugitive moonlight. I reached down to find a slim dagger in an ivory sheath. A smear of brazing showed where the hilt had been repaired after that scuffle with Vahil, I noted, but otherwise the trifle that had betrayed Den Domesin’s noble birth was still an elegant piece. I smiled at the memory of Albarn’s chagrin when his pose as a yeoman’s son orphaned in the retreat from Dalasor had been so easily unmasked.

  The fleeting moment was shattered as Viltred was seized with a paroxysm of coughing and Tonin turned to him hurriedly, helping him to sit upright.

  “Viltred, are you all right?”

  I looked around to see Tonin laying a concerned hand on the old wizard’s brow. Even in this dim light, his color struck me as unhealthy.

  “What do you think?” The aged mage struck Tonin’s hand away crossly but was seized by a further fit of coughing that left him gasping, clutching his arms to himself.

  “Take this.” Tonin ignored the old man’s irascible reply and held a small vial to his pallid lips. “Trust me, it was studying healing that first took me into investigating aetheric magic. I was to be initiated into the Daemarion conventual life until my father decided I should see a little more of the world before making such an important decision. I found I liked Vanam, you know, never seemed to find the right time to leave, got my silver ring, then the next project came along…”

  The Mentor’s inconsequential chat made it impossible for Viltred to interrupt. Whatever was in the potion certainly eased the old wizard’s breathing and the knot of pain between his brows gradually loosened.

  “I think we’d all better get some sleep,” said Tonin apologetically, repacking his casket with deft hands.

  Shiv yawned and nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning, Rysh.”

  I nodded and turned on my heel but did not return to my niche with Livak in the great hall. There was no way I could risk sleep again, not with every memory Temar had of this place awake and clamoring for my attention. I picked my way carefully through the sleeping figures and climbed up the wall to a ledge where I could rest my feet on an old and weathered corbel. Only I could also see it as it had been, a cheeky likeness of Den Rannion’s steward, his beak of a nose now reduced to a faint stump, hooded eyes mere blind hollows in the pitted stone. I drew a deep breath and settled myself to wait for morning. That would bring some surcease from all this, I swore to myself, else Planir would be facing questions on the point of my sword. Only it’s not your sword, I rebuked myself, it’s that lad Temar’s, and demanding answers with threats is his style, not yours. I hoped that was true, it was starting to become difficult to tell.

  As the night wore on, I found some small measure of com-fort in the regular pacing of the sentries and their quiet exchanges as the duties were swapped. Eventually the sun came up with the rapidity Misaen had thought fit for this strange land and, from my vantage point, the daylight showed me our little troop gathered within the sheltering walls, surrounded on all sides by skeins of milky mist. Huddled shapes began to stir, crawling out of blankets to go to relieve themselves, to share a drink and low-voiced chat over a mouthful of flatbread. The last of the night watch rolled themselves gratefully in their cloaks, with hoods over eyes and genial curses for those talking too loudly nearby.

  Jumping down from my perch, I headed for the Archmage as soon as he emerged from his tent, waving aside an offer of food from Halice as I passed her.

  “How soon can you scry for these mines, Planir?” I asked without preamble.

  “Just as soon as the necessary wizards have woken and broken their fast,” replied the Archmage with the faintest hint of surprise at my early appearance.

  “Who do you need?” I was determined to get this masquerade on the stage as soon as all the fiddlers were together.

  “Wake Viltred, somebody, please,” Planir commanded over his shoulder, his own eyes fixed on mine.

  “I’m already awake, Archmage,” the old wizard said crossly, a steaming tisane in one hand as he rubbed the knotted fingers of the other against his arm as if they pained him. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Scrying,” replied Planir tersely. “ ’Sar, where are you?”

  “Here,” Usara yawned fit to crack his jaw and grimaced as he scrubbed at his eyes with a shaking hand. “Sorry, I rather overdid it yesterday, clearing that channel in the river bed.” He nodded a casual greeting to me but started visibly when I looked up to return it.

  “What are you staring at?” I snapped.

  “I think most of us find it rather disconcerting to watch the color of your eyes flickering like that,” Planir answered for Usara in level tones that nevertheless effectively silenced me.

  “It is certainly an effect I’ve never come across in the written record, but then there was never any hint about this whole business with the dreams either.” Mentor Tonin arrived at my shoulder, busily lacing his ink-smeared jerkin before accepting an armful of parchments from an attentive pupil whom I identified as his protege, Parrail, a wiry-haired Ensaimin lad I’d have thought was scarcely old enough to be halfway through an apprenticeship, let alone wearing the silver seal ring that Vanam bestowed on its scholars. “Thank you for agreeing to undertake this scrying so early, Archmage. I very much appreciate the courtesy.”

  “Where’s Naldeth?” Viltred looked around crossly and the brisk young mage pushed his way through the warriors with scant apology.

  “Where do you want me?”

  “I’ll need you to join the nexus.” Planir rolled up his sleeves as Shiv set a broad silver bowl nearly an arm’s length wide on a rough wooden table lashed from green timber. He poured plain river water from a skin and, with a snap of his fingers, the silver bowl was full of emerald light, the radiance illuminating a gathering circle of awed faces as the mercenaries looked on silently. I stifled an ill-tempered desire to tell them to lose themselves and take their ignorant curiosity elsewhere.

  Viltred laid a hand on the rim of the bowl and now it shimmered with mingled blue and green light. Usara nodded to Planir, laying his own hands on the sides of the bowl and the circle of colors developed a yellowish undertone. Naldeth stretched out his hands, palm down over the water, and a reddish tint warmed the swirling pattern. The waters circled faster and faster, a vortex plaiting the liquid light in a dizzying spiral until Planir dipped both his hands into the center of the well and the bowl rang with a chime like a great temple bell. I could hear the watching mercenaries stir and murmur behind me but Planir’s steel gray eyes held my gaze in a viselike grip.

  “Watch and tell me what you recognize.” The Archmage spread his hands and an image rose from them, a circle in the empty air, edged with an ever changing pattern of the colors of wizardry, the clarity of the vision startling in the midst of the early morning mists. The picture moved and swooped, circling until I saw the placid expanse of the estuary, the wizard’s ship at anchor. I blinked as my eyes swore every oath they knew to tell me I was moving, while my ears denied them absolutely, leaving my stomach churning violently somewhere in the middle. I’ve never suffered from seasickness but now I made a mental note to be more understanding to those, like Livak, who do.

  The river sped away beneath the magical mirror, the banks on either side narrowing, growing more steep, white water now breaking the swirling greens of the current, the flatter grasslands of the coastal plain shrinking as the forest marched down to the water’s edge. I found myself swaying and tilting as my vision convinced me I was somehow traveling over this landscape, high as a bird but effortless in this enchanted flight. Peering in a futile attempt to see around the corner of the image and com
pletely caught up in the spectacular improbability of the experience, I nearly missed it.

  “There, back a little, on the near side, that’s the entrance to the gorge!” I struggled with the words as Temar’s memories came clamoring out of confinement and an urgency I could not explain filled me with dread.

  Planir closed his eyes for a moment and the image wheeled round, whispers on all sides telling me I wasn’t the only one finding this more than a little hard on the gut. The sunlight in the spell shone down on a narrow defile, ferns and wiry stems of opportunist bushes very nearly concealing it completely as a small torrent bubbled its way over a rocky bed to lose itself in the main flow.

  “Where exactly is this?” Planir demanded, looking intently at the vision from his own side.

  “It’s a little way upriver from the mining settlement.” I had the answer before I realized I knew it. “Temar and Den Fellaemion managed to get the survivors away on the boats and then marched them to the mines to get them away from the moorings.” A flood of recollection threatened to overwhelm me, the shouts, the weeping, the outburst of anger as frustrated people with nothing more to lose save their lives rounded on those driving them so hard for the sake of their salvation.

  “Do we know where that is, ’Sar?” The Archmage rounded on the younger wizard, whose face was grim with effort as he poured his power into the spell.

  “Yes,” he said shortly.

  Planir clapped his hands and the unearthly vision was gone, leaving only a bright pattern lingering inside my eyes, shooting across the pale morning light as I rubbed them. The mercenaries began to drift away, curiosity and misgivings in their low-voiced conversations, a few stumbling over unseen obstacles with attention momentarily elsewhere.

  “Archmage!” Kalion pushed his way toward us, an expression of intense annoyance creasing his fat jowls.

  “Hearth-Master,” Planir greeted him with smooth courtesy.